We have finally reached our Final Four! The match dates are:
Mar 28: Now-Or-Never Kiss vs. Marriage of Convenience
Mar 29: Achy Scars vs. You Called Me "X" You Must Be Serious
Whichever trope wins their day by having the most fan works will go on to the Championship Match!
Tag: #obiyukimadness26
Medias: Fic, art, edits or playlists
[PLEASE READ ALL GUIDELINES BEFORE POSTING YOUR WORKS]
Guidelines:
All work must be your own (eg. no plagiarizing other sources, tracing, pose stealing, AI art/writing etc)
The main pairing is Obi x Shirayuki
Fics, art, edits, and playlists are all valid works for this challenge
(If you create other forms of works please contact the comm and we will be happy to work out eligibility)
Must contain one trope from the day’s match up
Must be tagged #obiyukimadness26 within the first five tags
With tumblr’s history of breaking the tag, however, we also encourage you to @ the comm with your submissions
You may submit more than one entry for each day! Entries are capped at 3 fanworks per player for each
You may submit entries for both teams (a single entry can ONLY be counted for a single prompt, not both)
No works entered through the submission box will be accepted for this challenge
Works must be posted to tumblr to be eligible as fills! The post may redirect elsewhere (AO3, ffnet, deviant art, youtube, etc) but we need a tumblr post to link to!
Submissions must be complete; ie. one complete chapter, one complete sketch, one complete playlist
Fics must be over 500 words to count as a fill
Art does not have to be a full colored finished piece, but at least a finished sketch
Playlists must be over 8 songs.
All NSFW content must be tagged and under a Read More!
Please label with your chosen trope! (It will probably be obvious, BUT just in case)
Pretending to Be Wicked (and Being Good All the Time)
[Read on AO3]
Obiyuki Trope Madness 2026: Now-Or-Never Kiss
An Obi POV companion piece to Rarely Pure and Never Simple
The thing is: Obi’s fine with it in theory.
*
The whole script thing is supposed to be a joke.
Has the idea of a direct channel to the kid (and six or seven of their nearest and dearest) gone to his head? Sure. Has he gone a little power mad knowing that he can say anything and the boss won’t hear it? Of course. But does that mean that Obi’s out here, manifesting that she drops her binder mid-line? No.
Kinda funny that she does though.
“I knew I could count on you, kid,” he grunts, kicking his feet up on a couple of chair backs. Gazalt would cluck at him if she could see it— that’s where we put our audience, idiot— but she can’t, not when she’s on stage, caked in ten pounds of stage make up and black organza. “Now we’ll all know what Jack wears under those pants.”
He can’t even blame the kid for fumbling up there; even if Chief wasn’t there, staring at her like he can’t put her on a pedestal fast enough, there’s Lowen straining the seams of his costume and Toghrul showing enough décolletage to go to anyone’s head. Too bad he hadn’t known about this whole dress rehearsal thing back at his old high school; it would have made figuring out his type is yes, please a lot more obvious. Which could have saved him…twenty minutes of some sexuality-affirming bad decisions, at the outside. But still—
“What’s the over-under he’s commando?”
—he’s not about to make this easy for her.
“Obi.” Her mouth doesn’t move, but the name gasps out anyway, so soft in his ear he’s got to stifle a shiver. “Don’t.”
Stop, that’s how he’d like to hear that breath of hers end. Because what’s the purpose of sitting out here in the dark if he’s not torturing himself? At least she’s not next to him tonight, reminding him about the things he used to get up to in theater seats with cute girls when there wasn’t anyone around to see them.
Light and sound’s booth at the back of the auditorium barely deserves the name; just a folding table and black-painted cardboard taped high enough to hide the light they’ve got craned over their set up. But there’s a soft creak of a seat— one he wouldn’t be hearing if the stage was pin-drop silent, watching as Zen collected all of the kid’s meticulously collated pages, notes color-coded to within an inch of their lives. Higata, leaning back. Judging. “No bet. You can’t fit a pair of boxers in those things.”
“Aw, come on. Maybe he’s a briefs guy.” Even with the way the stage lights wash her out, he can see how the kid flushes, pink from her bangs to the thin gray straps slipping out from underneath her neckline. “Boxer-briefs?”
“It would be statistically unlikely for a young American man in his age range to choose briefs over other options, when presented,” Ryuu informs them at the same time Higata offers, “No panty line.”
The kid audibly chokes. Loud enough that Chief spares her a concerned glance, even though he’s two lines away from sprinting offstage to fetch a leather bag.
“So what's the verdict, kid?” Obi slouches his arms over the back of the seats, grin stretched from ear to ear. “You’re the one with VIP access, up there.”
Zen's causing organized chaos backstage, stagehands throwing props out by the handful, so the kid’s got enough time to squint out into the audience, searching the seats for a shadow human enough to glare at. Too bad Gwendolin’s mark is square in the center of the spot, full-blind past row three.
He’s got a clear view of her though, her whole struggle over whether to answer or ignore him lovingly illuminated by Higata’s lighting design. “I’m going commando.”
“I already told you, no bet.” The lights dim, drawing attention to center stage for Lady Bracknell's her final proclamation, happy couples coming to the fore. Shirayuki’s supposed to be one of them, but she’s too busy trying not to jump off the stage and bean them with her binder to realize she should be getting lovey-dovey with Chief. “Pick something we can actually debate. Like whether he’s hanging left or right.”
The kid nearly drops her script again— there’s a reason he’s the one that pours all the acids in Chem— but she catches herself, and it, before it can do much more than slump to a new page. No harm, at this point— not like the ladies get many lines when everyone learning their lessons before curtain call— but Shirayuki’s riffling through the pages anyway, doing something, anything really, to keep from looking below the belt—
So, she’s just as surprised as he is when Jack swoops in, all smiles, and lays a finale-worthy kiss on his Gwendolin.
*
Sucks to find out in an auditorium with half the drama club in it that ‘in theory’ doesn’t mean shit when it comes to ‘in practice.’
*
It’s a small consolation that the kiss itself sucks.
“That went well.” The kid’s close enough he can smell the apple of her shampoo, but the usual twist in his stomach leans toward nauseated rather than aroused.
She groans, sinking so far down in her seat her knees could cover face as well as her hands. The lights are up for notes, but every inch of her skin practically day-glo with humiliation, bright enough Obi’d be able make out her blush in full dark.
I could have kissed you better. It’s a stupid thing to think; everything between the kid and Chief is pretty much settled, a real high school sweethearts to ‘till death do we part situation, but still. I would have kissed you so good you wouldn’t be able to worry about the blocking.
“If you ever need a few pointers, kid,” he murmurs, his voice reverberating out of where her headset’s slung around her neck. “I’d be happy to help out.”
It’s stupid thing to say, desperate, but if there’s one thing Obi’s good at, it’s making desperation sound like a joke. One that hits, since her fingers slot open just enough to glare through. “God, go choke already.”
I could kiss you, he tries not to think, and make you want more.
He chokes on a laugh, instead. “Kid.”
*
hop u punchd a grl hrd tdy
cuz u missd a SHOW lol
I assume that you will be going to the cast party tomorrow
lol wsnt invitd to a prty
prob cuz f the fuckboi thng
I lok lke I lie 2 prty lol
You and Shirayuki could honestly be the same person
???
She said the same thing. Minus the fuck boy thing
But everyone’s invited. Raj’s house after wrap
mansion, u men
He’s been telling everyone that his parents are out of town
Apparently it will be a “rager”
lmao
tht guy wuldnt no a god tme if t succd hs dck
No argument
But you are going
roflmao yhe SUCKS
lol
Shirayuki needs a ride
cnt u drv?
I can. But I would prefer not to have additional passengers
I would like to have plans after the party
lolllll get it miss kiki
I hardly need your approval
But Shirayuki will need you to drive her
cant, nothn 2 were
stars, u no
You’ll find something, I’m sure
*
The shirt’s a mistake.
Not in the mirror— oh no, there it sits perfect. Obi didn’t even know he had muscles until this shirt makes them out of a few yards of stretch cotton and the strategic application of some buttons. No wonder Big Guy looks more jacked during long-sleeve season.
It’s when he’s walking around; the fabric moves in odd directions, too tight under the arms and practically painted onto his abs. He’s aware of it 24/7, tugging and shrugging and sometimes outright pulling at it to make himself feel covered. His band shirts don’t do this; even the tighter ones got some give when he moves, like they’re old men themselves, reluctant to get a mosey on just because some snot-nosed kid wants to lift a pallet.
But he must be doing something right, because Lata takes one look at him on the way out of the door and says, “It is hardly my place to weigh in on your adolescent peccadilloes, but I would ask that you consider the future of the young lady you are contemplating relations with and be sure to— as my students say— ‘wrap it up.’”
Obi hauls himself to a stop mid-tug, fingers weighing heavy against his neck. “What?”
“Your attire.” Lata spares him a nod before he turns back to his computer screen, frowning over some kid’s essay. “It suggests that you are attempting to entice a partner into sexual congress. I assume it’s that girl you’ve been making eyes at every time she traipses into my house.”
His jaw unhinges, ready to say…something, but I’m not making eyes at her, is too defensive, destined to fail; can’t I just wear something nice, is worse, and guilty-sounding to boot; and joke’s on you, she wants to close-mouth kiss my best friend, is just sad, real loser talk.
“God, you’re not going to slip me a condom or something, are you?” he manages instead, covering the much more important offense of Lata Forzeno giving him sex advice.
Lata snorts, not even bothering to glance up from his screen. “Why would I subject myself to the humiliation of pondering the size of sheath that would fit my wayward ward in the family planning aisle of our local pharmacy when I’m certain you are already in possession of suitable prophylaxis?”
Too bad this guy hadn’t been around the first time he did SAT prep; maybe then he could have gotten a passing score on vocab. “Ah, thanks…I think.”
His fingers don’t even pause as he says, “Not a compliment. Simply an observation.”
“Well, thanks for observing then,” Obi laughs, shouldering on his hoodie. “But don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll be getting up to anything like that tonight.”
Not when his plan is to do a strategic retreat the minute kid makes contact. He’s happy for the two of them, he is, he just…doesn’t need to see them do a tonsil handshake or whatever. Or worse, stare longingly into each other's eyes.
Lata does look up now, giving him one last measuring glance. “I suppose we’ll see about that.”
*
It’s not that his car is old, it’s just...vintage. Well-maintained for its age. Not an inch of that sky blue paint job has peeled under his watch, just...silvered, like the grandma he bought it from. Not metallic, but its older, more world-weary cousin. The engine still turns over, at least, and if it has more quirks than features, well— Obi’s always liked a girl with character.
It just would be nice if the back driver’s side door would give a good slam instead of needing to negotiate the scene first. He’s on attempt number three when the lock finally catches, metal and glass and thirteen-year-old felted polyester pressing in around him, muffling everything but the sound of his own breath, coming too sharp, too harsh.
Whatever. Whatever. He shoves in his earbuds, falling back against the seat— middle one, no headrest, perfect angle to stare up at the overhead light and wonder what the fuck he’s doing with his life.
If you ever need a few pointers, I’d be happy to help.
God, he’s an idiot. Might as well just have said, “I want to kiss you.” It would have been more subtle. Less desperate. Cooler, even.
But good girls like her date boys from the nice part of town, the kind that can pay for dates without scheduling extra shifts. They don’t fuck around with some loser super senior who’s more likely to make a career as a drink-slinging caddy at the local country club than make a wait list at a community college. Even if they kiss better.
He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. Lata may be out here, thinking he’s off having wild monkey sex in Raj’s fuck-off huge mansion, but two hours alone in the back seat of a car that’s old enough to pop its first boner at the eighth grade dance is the best he can do. Better than being in there, watching the two of them bumping and grinding to the best club hits of ten years ago. Slowly getting closer and closer until—
Tap tap tap.
Pain spikes where his head hits the dome light— the corner of it really; sharp in a way that must have been phased out for safety in the next model— and he swivels, staring out the back passenger side to see red. White too, since there’s a smile to go with the kid’s wave. And green, wide, wild, and begging him to open the door right now, please.
“Fuck.” He tugs a bud out of his ear, leaning over to crank open the window. “What’s up, kid?”
Girl’s already mid-breath, like she’s about to burst if she doesn’t get the words out, and then just— doesn’t. Like the little mouse on the running wheel that is her brain has just up and taken five.
And just as suddenly, it’s back. “How do I kiss good?”
He can’t be hearing her right. Not over the ringing in his ears.
“I mean well.” Pink’s supposed to clash with red, but when Shirayuki blushes, he’s got to fight the urge to sink his teeth in to taste it. “I need to learn how to kiss well.”
There’s got to be porn that starts like this— god knows it’s getting him going— but Obi's not fooling himself into thinking this is his Dear Playboy moment. “This is about Zen?”
Stupid question. There’s only one guy this kid cares about kissing. But he waits until she nods, pushing the door open. “Step into my office.”
He shifts, bitch to right-side passenger, letting her have the left all to herself. Which she takes up approximately half of, skirt and all. “Shut the door behind you.”
It’s not the first time Obi’s been alone with a girl in the back of this car, but that’s always started horizontal, no talking involved, and god, it’s quiet in here, not even the wind to break up the silence. It takes two, three times for him to wrap the cord of his headphones around his fingers, and by the time he’s tucked it into his pocket, the kid’s staring at him like she’s waiting for a syllabus.
“What do you need to know?” The lizard part of his brain provides a few potential lesson plans that he spends considerable effort not entertaining.
“Everything. Is…is remedial a level? Whatever that is.” Her hands are a safe place to look, curled up in her lap and flexing like a kitten that’s just learned there’s claws in those fuzzy paws of theirs. “You saw my last…”
Kiss. But what comes out is a grunt. Fair enough. “Right. Basics, then.”
“Yes.” She practically deflates from relief. “Exactly.”
Obi might be able to dirty talk with the best of them, all tell me how bad you want this cock and I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name, but when he drags his eyes up to Shirayuki’s, so bright they practically glow with the trust she has in him, he can’t even remember how kissing works. Not enough to walk her through it, lab protocol style.
“So first”— it’s impossible not to picture it: leaning in all slow, his nose nudging hers until she tilts her head, breath brushing over his lips and begging for him to close the space between them— “remember to tilt your head when he goes in. But not too much” — he can already picture Miss Over-Achiever here going for a cool forty-five degrees— “you just want to breathe. Not like, I don’t know, be weird.”
“Oh my god, Obi,” she groans, burying her head in her hands. “Please don’t tell me there’s a way to be weird. If you let me know I could be weird, I will be weird.”
He hasn’t even gotten to the part where there’s lips involved and already this whole beginner's course is falling apart. “Kid. This is the easy stuff.”
“I know! I know! But I’m just…” She worries at her lip a little, dinting the chapstick, and Obi can feel every thought fly right out of his head. “I’m not an auditory learner.”
Well, there’s not much else he can do, unless she wants him to— “Can’t you just…show me?”
Ha. Happily. But that’s not what she’s angling for. “What, like on a CPR dummy? You got one of those just laying around—? Hey!” he yelps, rubbing where she pinched him. He deserved it, but still.
“No! Just…” It’s cute, the way she spirals, hands pressing into her cheeks until she looks more hamster than girl. “Could you do it, you know…on me? Just practice on me. Or with me. Something!”
Oh. So that was what she was angling for.
Huh. This is the worst idea he’s ever heard. He wants to do it a stupid amount. “Jesus, kid. You really are just falling apart.”
She lets out a strangled noise, hunching over her knees. “He went to get me punch.”
There should be awards for how little he reacts, smothering shock down to the barest twitch, and still—she glares. “Don’t!”
“Okay, so, I guess you’re on a time crunch.” A chuckle slips through, but in his defense, the idea of Chief standing there, looking around the dance floor John Travolta style, two cups of punch in hand— it’s funny. The kid doesn’t seem to agree. “Fine, fine. We’ll just have to skip straight to the practice sets.”
“Great!” She springs up, all eager, like he just announced a pop quiz. “I am so good at homework.”
She scrambles to face him with all the giddy gracelessness that got him into this whole shit show in the first place. Because it’s cute, like one of those stupid animal mascots that trip over its own ears or whatever, and he’s the sort of idiot that’s into that, apparently. He’s had sex in this car— both back seat and front— and yet, here he is, half hard just from the humidity from their breaths and the promise of the worst kiss of his life.
Ugh, fuck, he’s just— stupid. Getting all hot and bothered because some girl wants him to close-mouth kiss her. Practically sweating under this hoodie, because—
“Is that new?”
The kid’s got a voice he sometimes has to strain to hear over the bustle of the hallways, but here in this car it’s almost too loud, tinny and tight, like it’s coming to him across a wire. Stilted in a way he’s not sure he’s ever heard from her. Like her second thoughts are having third thoughts, and even she’s starting to realize there’s something sideways about this little lesson plan of hers.
Well, his, really. It’s just her idea. And if he doesn’t hurry up getting this hoodie off, it’s going to be no one’s idea, because she’s gonna change her mind.
He shucks his sweatshirt in record time, ditching it in the front seat before he turns back to her, and—
And she’s staring at him. No, not him, but the shirt. The shirt he’d bought special just for this shindig, since his whole wardrobe was probably old enough to drive. “God, I do own nice shit, okay.”
This and his wedding, wakes, and funerals suit, but he’d rather die than admit that. Last thing this kid needs to know is that she made the short list of women who got him to go out and buy new clothes, especially since it’s only got two names on it. And the other one isn't even alive.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” It’s the sort of thing most people would fling out, defensive, but it comes out of her all slow, like she’s thinking each word one at a time. “I just haven’t seen that one before.”
Not for the first time, Obi’s glad he doesn’t have skin like the Chief, ready to sell him out at the slightest blush. “Yeah well, let’s make this quick. You have a gentleman caller to get back to.”
One blink and suddenly both the lights are on and someone’s home. The kid twists towards him, all attentive, like he’s a real teacher or something. “Right. So, what do I do?”
Her skirt rides up too, enough that he can see the pattern of her tights stretched over her thighs, and suddenly all he can think about is whether it goes all the way up to the waistband, or whether he could push it one more inch and see when it stops—
This is a bad idea. The worst idea. But god, he’s committed to doing it. “Are you kissing him or is he kissing you?”
Her head tilts, hair brushing one shoulder. “Does that matter?”
It’s the difference between actively fucking up his life or just letting her do it, but he just smirks and asks, too low, “Do I have to teach you how to take a kiss or how to start one?”
If he’d felt bad about this before, it’s nothing compared to the way he does now, watching her think about kissing someone else right in front of him. Knowing that she’ll be thinking about someone else while he’s doing it too.
If he was a better guy— better friend— he’d kick her out the driver-side door right now and tell her that figuring it out is half the fun. Let the both of them clack teeth for personal growth. It’s not like Zen’s going to send him a thank you card for teaching her how to lock lips like an actual, human person. But—
“Ah, just…” The kid had been bold enough getting in here, but now she shies, tucking a strand of red behind her ear. “Kissing.”
—But there’s never been a bad idea he didn’t trip into face first, and he’s sure as hell not going to start now. Not when her breath hitches as he scoots close, just like all those times on the couch backstage, only the emergency lights to keep them company. Not when her cheek curves so perfectly against his palm, like they were made to fit, freckles disappearing beneath his thumb as he brushes over the bone.
It’s stupid how much he wants this. How much every single one of his cells is quivering to close the space between them. Her breath skitters over his lips and he leans in, and— this is it. Just one kiss to sweep her off her feet. To get her so hot and bothered, she forgets about Chief and his punch and their godawful first attempt at this. His only chance.
And yet he stops, just shy of her lips, close enough their noses touch. Close enough he knows which way her head tilts. Close enough their breaths mingle, knotting together until he can’t tell whose stutters against his mouth.
“Alright.” Nerves haven’t made Obi sweat for years, but his palms prickle, threatening to pick up bad habits right where she could feel it. “I’m going to kiss you now, okay.”
The muscles of her neck work under his fingers, so tense he’s sure she’s going to just rear back. That she's finally understood how stupid this whole idea is.
But she only nods, nose tracing a small arc across his cheek. And that’s more than enough to encourage him to fall that last inch—
“Wait!”
He hauls up short, heart crashing against his ribs. This is it; her third thoughts have had fourth thoughts and she’s realized there’s no point to kissing some frog when it could be a prince instead, and—
Her tongue swipes out. Just to wet her lips, of course, but they’re so close it traces over his too, wiping every higher thought from his head.
“Where do I put my hands? I don’t—?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he groans, finally falling, falling, until his mouth meets—
A brick wall. Or close to it; her lips have spread themselves so thin he can’t find a seam to slot himself into.
No wonder why Zen laughed. He can't help doing it either. “Kid.”
She bridles, ready to reel back and put some space between herself and another mistake, but he holds her steady. Pulls back, but only enough to give her room to breathe. Keeps her cheek still cupped in his hand while sweeping a too-tender thumb over the bone. “You gotta relax your mouth.”
She blinks. “I don’t—?”
If his hand fits perfectly against her cheek, his thumb fits even better between her lips. The tip of it scrapes against her teeth as he opens them, and haah, he can’t think too hard about that. His fingers in her mouth, her eyes so dark— “Just like that.”
Their lips touch, his slotting between hers as easy as a key in its lock, and she gasps, half swallowing his breath with it. Six months ago, he would have laughed at a kiss like this, would have said that only the most desperate virgins would get hot from just bumping lips, but—
That’s before he did it with her. Before her breath caught as he pulled away, leaning in to linger, and all could could think was, girl, me too.
Obi flutters another kiss against lips before leaning back, just beyond where a tilt of the head could catch him. It gets another gasp out of her, one he takes full advantage of as he darts in, daring to linger a little longer before pulling away, the soft click of their lips doing nothing to cover the frustrated groan that slips out of her throat.
It goes to his head a little. Makes him grin and go back in, drawing her out and out and out until she’s wriggling closer, trying to close what little space he puts between them.
Ha. And he thought he could live with doing this only once.
“Uh-uh, kid.” His eyes slit open, and there— the thin ring of green he expected, wrapped around pupils so blown it gets a twitch below the belt. “No peeking.”
Those lashes of her flutter before they settle along the sweep of her cheekbone. “I’m—”
He can’t help it; he leans in again. How can he resist when she’s so fun to tease, whining each time he lets her have a longer taste before he darts away? Even better when he runs his mouth over hers until she’s gasping, grip on his shoulders desperate just to keep him in place. Remedial lessons, that’s what she said she needed, and now with two tips she’s hot on his heels, letting out the kind of moans he’ll be chasing in his dreams tonight, angling herself closer and closer, until—
Until she grunts, annoyed, and claps her hands to his ears.
There’s no more room for retreat, not when she’s dragging him down, arms wrapped around his shoulders until it’s just pulling but falling. Haah, it’s been so long since he’s done any of this that he’d forgotten that the whole purpose of the chase was to be caught and—
His hands shoot out, catching himself between the seats. Space— that’s important. There’s got to be enough between them. Especially the horizontal kind.
Not exactly easy to remember when she’s kissing him like she needs the air in his lungs to breathe, laying back so far he has to get his knees under him to keep the holy ghost between them. Or at least her and the situation that is no longer brewing below the belt but an active alert. Girl asked for kissing lessons, not an extended introduction to his dick.
Still, she’s not a fan— keeps pawing at him to come closer, making all sorts of encouraging noises; the kind that gives certain parts of him ideas beyond their station. There’s even one moan that rumbles right up from her toes, eager to make a circuit of him too, and he forgets it’s not just practice. Lets his tongue sweep over the bow of her bottom lip, a request running on instinct rather than actual thoughts, and—
And her mouth falls open, no hesitation. Like this isn’t some test run. Like he’s the one she came to this party to kiss.
His hand drops to her thigh, the fabric of her skirt brushing against his knuckles. He’d seen the pattern of it before when they’d been knocking around backstage, putting away the last of the props with only the cafeteria lights to see by: thick knitted cables interspersed between lacy little ribbons of nylon. His palms had itched, imagining how it might feel under them, following the knotty little paths, but—
But it’s so much better feeling how they stretch around her, scratchy and hot against his palms. He’s never got the difference between pornographic and erotic, but he feels it now, so hard it makes him stupid and not an inch of skin in sight.
Her breath comes heavy, blooming into his mouth with every pass of his lips, this practice kiss no longer closed-mouth but something more, something getting close to—
Her tongue flicks out against his lip, a clear invitation, and he throws himself back to the safe haven of felted polyester.
“Well, that’s” — god, he can’t even catch his breath— “that’s the basics.”
She stares at him, still half-horizontal, hair mussed and mouth oddly shiny. “What?”
Lip gloss— no, balm; mango flavored. He can taste it on his own lips, waxy and citrus, and—
God, he has to stop. “The basics of kissing. You’re— you’re just fine with them.”
Her skirt’s all rucked up, high enough to confirm the pattern on her tights stops mid-thigh, and—
That’s fell knowledge. The kind that boyfriends should know, not— not manwhore friends who agree to give kissing lessons. “Great even. Zen’ll be pleased.”
The comic books are right; with his eyes clenched shut, all his other senses become more acute. A creak of springs and the shift of the seat under his hands is enough to tell him that she’s upright now, hands knitted nervously in her lap. Finally having those second thoughts now, the ones that remind her she’s not here to make out with him but learn how to kiss the guy she actually likes.
Told you I knew how to light a fire, he doesn’t say. Not after how well she lit his own; dick straining against his jeans like it could break the inseam from will alone. Takes just a heel of his hand to fix it, guiding it up to his belly, where it can piss and moan about the lack of attention without being obvious. Because that’s what he’s about: subtlety. God, good thing she can’t possibly be looking at him, or—
“But there’s more, right?” The words spill out of her in a rush, like coke from a shook up can. “There’s, um, advanced concepts?
Advanced concepts? His breath catches in his chest, then stutters out on a laugh. That almost sounds like— “Are you asking me if there’s an AP course for kissing?”
He turns to ask the question— has to, just so that he can see the way she wrinkles her nose as she scoots away from him. So he can know she’s had her taste and still prefers the fancy white bread from the other side of town.
But that’s not the look she’s giving him when she says, “Yes. If you’re offering it.”
This can’t be happening. “Kid—”
If there was a plan for the rest of that sentence, he forgets it the moment her leg swings over his hip, ass settling on his lap like he was made to be under her. The pattern of her tights stretches against his palms like an old friend, and god, how’s he supposed to behave when her mouth opens the minute it meets his, begging for him to fill it? His tongue barely licks over her teeth before she’s moaning, pressing down into his dick, so hot that he can barely think.
A good friend would push her off. Would tell her that there’s greener pastures waiting past those weird ass cherubs flanking the door. But Obi feels her squirm, pressing her cunt right against his cock— plus three layers— and, well, he’s not going for sainthood, here.
“Kid.” God, she’s perfect, fitting right into his hands when his palms slide up, cupping her ass. She’s burning even through his jeans, pussy practically begging to be fucked—
But he can’t. Not like this, not with her. He might rate a quick back-of-the-car fuck, but she’s rose petals and room with a view, the sort of thing worth waiting for.
Doesn’t mean he can’t guide her down, grinding into him in a way that puts stars behind his eyes. Give her a taste of what she wants where she needs it. Where she’s burning to have it, and—
And she whimpers. Not a little mouse squeak, but a full-throated whine, like he’s balls deep in her already, like no one’s ever given it to her so good as him, and—
“Oh, fuck.” He’s not supposed to be talking, not supposed to be anything but the thing she fucks herself against, but he can’t help himself. Not when he can see her doing it, using him like— “Oh, fuck, kid, that—”
Her head falls to his shoulder with a grunt, grinding down on him so good that he forgets every word that isn't don't and stop and more.
“Oh god.” Why the fuck is he talking? Just letting things fall out of his mouth, no filter. “Oh god, that is so good, don’t—”
She tilts her hips this time, dragging herself over him so slow his head catches her clit through three layers of clothes. He'd be embarrassed about the sound he makes— the kind of whimper that belongs on an animal, not someone who can do algebra— if her moan didn't drown his out, dragging up from places so deep it rattle his own molars. Like she’s close, like he could get her there, and—
“Fuck.” He sounds stupid, blissed out and riding the edge, but it’s the only thing keeping him from coming right here, right now. “Yes, god, the way you sound— god fuck, that’s so good, please—”
Don’t stop, he wants to tell her— starts to, even, but she laps it right out of his mouth, and the groan that chases after it. It’s good— kissing her, touching her, doing everything but straight up fucking in the back of his car, but he needs more. Needs to make her whine and cry the way he does, clutching at him like she’ll tear cloth to get to bare skin.
He drags a hand away from her ass to her collar instead, slipping buttons out from their holes with a tug. Can’t bother with things like unbuttoning when he’s too busy shoving down the cup of her bra, desperate to get to skin. There’s a nipple in there somewhere, he’s sure, but he gets enough to bare a rounded curve and just bites instead, enjoying the way her breath catches.
God, she’s so soft. Knew she would be, even if she’d always made noises when the other girls traded cup sizes. Told him once she wouldn’t even bother if she didn’t get cold so easy, and god, if that hadn’t thrown off his entire night. But he’s got no complaints about size now, tongue flicking down under the cup to find—
“Oh.” Her nails scrape over his scalp, clutching at him as he sucks her nipple into his mouth, running his tongue right over— “Oh…oh my…please.”
“Yes.” He grins against her breast, grinding up into her gaps. “God, I want to touch you” — wants to tear these tights, too, shoving her panties aside to give her something to really ride— “I want to make you feel do good”— wants to feel her clench around him, moaning his name— “ah, yes, like that, god” — just a flick of his fingers and she could grind against his bare cock, only her panties between them— “fuck, Shirayuki, I—”
Her nails bite into him, dragging, and the sound she makes— god, he’s never heard anything better. Never felt anything better.
His vision whites out, every muscle relaxing as he comes hard enough to throw his head against the rest. Takes all he has just to keep bucking into her, letting her drain every last drop of pleasure from his cock.
Until it stops.
“Uh.” Post-nut clarity hits him like a truck. She came out here for kissing lessons, and he just creamed himself like a kid during math class. From dry humping. “That, um…”
Chief’s still out there, holding a cup of punch.
“I really did not mean to do that. I just…” He scrubs a hand over his face, muffling a nervous chuckle. Practice kissing, huh? God, he’s got no self-control.
Not like the kid seems to be complaining. Just leans back, taking in the mess he’s made of himself, and—
“Oh.” Her eyes go wide. Dark too, which isn’t helping with the self-control thing. “Oh my.”
“Sorry, I should have…” Told you I was going to come, he almost says, like it hadn’t blind-sided him too, taking him right out at the knees. Made sure you were done too, maybe, but—
“I have to go.” The kid scrambles off him with the same grace as a kitten falling into a water bowl. Frantic. Panicked. Like she’s never used her limbs before.
“Wait, kid.” They should talk about this, whatever just happened. About what it means, or what it doesn’t. “Don’t—”
She nearly trips over the seat as she dodges his hand, the door flying open with only a single application of handle and freaked out girl. Almost takes another digger getting out too, but the second she’s got her feet on the paving stones—
She’s off like a shot. Gone, almost as if she’d never been here in the first place. If it wasn’t for all the steamed up windows and the mess in his pants, he might have believed it too.
Obi throws himself back against the seat, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck.”
*
In his worst nightmares, he’ll still see Lata at the kitchen table when he gets in the door, and the look he gives him as he says, “Looks like you had an eventful evening.”
Obi angles his hoodie a little more firmly over his crotch. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Everything after the fight is only a blur of blood and Shirayuki.
His Miss’s voice comforting him, giving instructions, and urging him forward. Her arms guiding him and holding him up when he slumps over. Her hands tending his injuries after the fallout and holding his own whenever she could.
All of her is always so soft and sweet, even when she’s being firm. His Mistress has a kindness like that, it permeates everything she does.
Her face is the only thing he can see besides the blood. His boots stumbling beneath him with red already dried onto the leather, leaving dark footprints as they drag forward. His clothes are wet with it; deep red dripping from his torso as a single color so that only the splashes on his limbs show that the fabric was ever anything else. It’s a stark contrast against the white of the melting snow surrounding them, as if the blood clung to him purely to paint the message of his failure to escort his Miss out of these mountains.
And his hands, oh, his hands.
They’re always stained with blood, but now even his Miss can see it.
Or maybe his blood mixes with the remnants of his dead enemies as a sign of what fate to expect for himself this time.
Read on AO3!
This is a "Now or Never Kiss" submission for the Obiyuki trope madness finals! @snowwhite-andtheknight
A Playlist for Obiyuki Madness 2026 “Achy Scars” by @snowwhite-andtheknight
Built this playlist around the title lyric Incubus song and used some song drafts that didn’t necessarily have scar lyrics but fit the vibes of this playlist with themes of past lives and new homes. I was tempted to use the cleaning his scars screenshot for the title but him explaining his scars and “perilous past” works much better.
Scars That Sing
Head in the Clouds- The Beths
Let Me Go (feat. Madison Cunningham)- Deep Sea Diver
Scars and Stars- Matt Pond PA
Turn Into- Jay Som
Monuments and Melodies- Incubus
Past Lives (feat. Hayley Williams)- Jay Som
We’re In Love- boygenius
Left and Leaving- Motion City Soundtrack
Summary lyrics are cited under the cut:
Head in the Clouds- The Beths
It's a pain in the heart
Leaves a scar every time
You can scream at the void
But it never replies
I just want to know
What is sticking 'round worth?
Let Me Go (feat. Madison Cunningham)- Deep Sea Diver
Heavy hands on my heart
I follow you down
Is it too late for me now?
Scars and Stars- Matt Pond PA
Stars and scars are shining upon the snow that's hiding
What's underneath and rotten should be forgotten
Though inside it's warmer the cold is good for keeping
All the secrets that slept are better off left sleeping
Turn Into- Jay Som
My shadow disappeared
Been gone for several years
I wait for its return
I'll be here
I'll be waiting
Come help me, come save me
Now that you're by my side
Don't leave, don't hurt my pride
You've turned into the sign I've wished for
I'm coming home
Monuments and Melodies- Incubus
My hands are trembling
And my eyes are on fire
This house is crumbling
Left brain, left out, on the wire
My past is perilous
But each scar I bear sings
Monuments to where I have been
And melodies to where I am going
I need you in front of me saying my name
Saying to me, I want you the way you are
Past Lives (feat. Hayley Williams)- Jay Som
Broken sparrow
An open echo
Looking sideways
Casting shadows
Entire lifetimes
Spent on the sidelines
Walking side by side
With your past lives
We’re In Love- boygenius
You could absolutely break my heart
That's how I know that we're in love
I don't need the symbol of a scar
And I told you of your past lives, every man you've ever been
It wasn't flattering, but you listened like it mattered
If you rewrite your life, may I still play a part?
Left and Leaving- Motion City Soundtrack
The sidewalks are watching me think about you
Sparkled with broken glass
I'm back with scars to show
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here
Memory will rust and erode into lists
Count yellow highway lines
That you're relying on to lead you home
If there was one thing that Obi had learned during his time at Wistal, it was that castles never sleep. Most of the nobles kept to daytime hours, as did quite a bit of the household staff. His wanderings at night had shown him the quieter side of the castle. Kitchen staff up in the early morning, preparing bread, guards who roamed the halls, and messengers coming at all hours. He was known to all of them, be it a nod of recognition or a smile when he popped in for a late-night snack. In a different lifetime, he would have cringed at being seen, recognition being his enemy. Now there was not a person in the castle who was not familiar with Sir Obi.
It wore on him. At first, it had helped to think of it as a long-term mercenary position. It had been nice to have a sense of safety and a full belly. The salary had been a nice bonus. Honestly, it had been more than he’d expected for babysitting a prince and an herbalist. Cushy, he would have called it before. He’d joked that Master held his leash now, but the truth of it was that a certain red-haired woman had unknowingly taken it. Every twitch had him following behind her. He’d played it off, saying that interesting things happened around his Miss and he wanted to see how they’d play out. But that was a lie. Miss was the interesting thing.
Read More on AO3:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82561401
